Sun upon the Sands
by GangerlyBalls
Summary: The story of Princess Nymeria's conquests from beginning till end, from the point of view of the people around her.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

Aegys had cursed to himself when the stormsinger predicted a storm this very day. He still insisted to though, despite the warnings, to travel on today. Why? Because he hated this barren grassland? Despite the supposed pleasures of the cities upon the River Rhoyne, they never speak of the land in between. And only leagues away from the river, it was either hot sand or dull fields, expanding towards the horizon. It made Aegys homesick.

 _Homesick? You fool, do you know who you are?_

"She's as much a maiden as I am Westerosi!" shouted the boy Gaerion, bellowing in light-pitched laughter. He bantered with one of the slave-boys, some joke which riled them like schoolboys. And he did it with that hideous mat on his chin. Aegys wrinkled his nose at the patchy hair which clinged to his face. Aegys always encouraged him to shave it, but sadly he insists to continue strutting the thing about. _What an idiot a child is._

"By Visya's nipple if I fly in the damned rain." said Gaerion, who stared at the storm clouds in the distance.

"Careful Visyna's nipple does not strike you down, boy. The goddess is not one for crude jests," responded Aegys lowly. He did not wish for his antics this day.

Gaerion yawned, "Besides, Lady Palaerya will not be happy if we track mud in her estate, Lord Aegoryos." He tugged upon the reigns of the yellow beast bellow him, the dragon snorting bursts of flames from its nose.

Aegys scoffed, and as if on cue, his own dragon threw its own burst of fire into the air. Colored dark green and grey, it cackled and cracked in rapid sparks, and the smaller dragon recoiled back. Watching the smaller dragon's retreat made Aegys laugh, though not out loud. He was a dragonlord, an _Aegoryos_ , and dragonlords never smiled in front of lessers.

This also amused Gaerion who laughed out, more like a giggle than a true, hardy laugh, "You know I am right, Lord Aegoryos," He wagged his finger at him, "she'll throw another set of coals on the slaves, get _blood_ all over the carpets again." Gaerion proclaimed it matter-of-factly and doled Aegys' mood. He was right, and it made Aegys frown.

 _She will shriek and throw a tremendous fit, the shrilling hag._ Aegys was not very fond of his wife.

"And her wrath is not the one's who you should fear, Velaryon." spat Aegys, which stuck itself upon the dried tiles below. The wind outside blew gently, and even with whirling storms leagues away, the sun shined bright over the Rhoyne. From the top of his estate, he could see the plethora of dark-skinned natives bathing, cleaning, and playing in the river.

The sight of the children playing amused him, but in a salt river? _Bloody barbarians._ Nothing of that sort would occur in Valyria.

Close to the river's shore laid the colony of Dorys Volar, mainly composed of small estates and a military garrison. Of course, it was nothing like the great Black Walls of Volantis, for in exchange for marble houses Dorys Volar had mudbrick huts filled of slave dung and flies. His estate was divided from the rest of the settlement, but it did not rid the disgusting smell.

In his own estate, servants toiled back and forth below, many of them newly-enslaved boys from Sar Mell, packing large bags and containers of supplies and carrying them back and forth. Using ropes and levies, the slaves tied the huge sacks upon each side of the two dragons. The sight of the pair surely terrified them, but they toiled on, not wanting the crack of any whip. _Lessers know their place in this world._

Aegys' dragon was the largest, a great green lizard of over two hundred years, bearing shining scales which put even the youngest dragons to shame. Her name- for it was a she-dragon- was Maekynar, his ancestor of nearly five hundred years, and she was ridden by his father, his father before him, and so forth. From the day his great-grandfather hatched her during the Ghiscari Wars till his departure of this poor colony.

Gaerion's dragon was the smaller of the two, a very dull yellow worm, named Visengar, after the Goddess of Gold. Aegys would call it more of a wyvern than a true dragon, in truth.

They were flying to Volantis, then after a brief annual visit to his lovely wife, he would finally fly south to Valyria proper, the heartlands of the Freehold. He missed it and found to despise the bare desert near the Rhoyne when compared to the mountains and valleys of his homeland.

 _He could not help it, it is his home. Every true Valyrian yearns for home._

He had spent nearly twenty-five years of his life in these lands, from his first command against corsairs near Sarnoy to the fall of Chroyne, where the rebel prince Garin hanged from a gilded cage. But the Rhoynar Wars, from the Turtle Wars to the Spice Wars, have ended, and with peace finally in hand and a land fully secured, able to reap the bounties upon the Mountain Halls of Valyria. The water priests had bent the knee and he would return a hero. He could almost smell the volcanic smoke of his home.

"D-dragonlord." A slave boy nearly shouted beside the dragon Maekynar, breaking Aegys from his thoughts. His eyes trained upon the child, who shrunk in fear. _Lessers know their status to the dragonlords of the Freehold._

"Speak up, boy!" Gaerion laughed wildly, "I hear the Viceroy is quite poor in hearing." The boy blushed wildly and Gaerion hooted loudly, but Aegys made no physical response. _You are lucky I do not whip you._

"We... it is done, my lord." He spoke quiet and quickly, not making any eye contact. _A lesser never looks a dragonlord in the eye._

He waved him off, the brown boy running as quick as he could away. How scared they were, mostly for the correct reasons. Lessers always shook in fear at the sight of a dragon, much less the sight of one in combat.

"You scared him senseless." Gaerion barked out another laugh, but it was silence by Aegys' gaze. _Almost ten and eight, yet he still acted like a boy._ Even his appearance, with his wild mane of unkempt hair and straggling beard, Gaerion Velaryon looked more like an urchin than a prestigious dragonlord.

 _You were young once._

 _Yes, but he did not like a hermit._

Aegys maintained himself proper, his face clean and his hair cut short, and himself dressed according to his station. His pauldrons, helm, and assortment of armor were Valyrian steel trimmed with gold and silver, his family's sigil of purple flames engraved into the breastplate. On his left shoulder bore the white dragon of the Freeholders, displaying membership in one of the principle dragonlord families.

Without a word, he spurred his dragon with a thrust of his spiked boot into Maekynar's side and her great extended out, covering the slaves and guards below. Like an eclipse, it blotched out the sun.

The draconic wings heaved up and down, to and for, propelling the dragon and its rider up in a great gush of air. Rags, leaves, and even some children struggled in its power, blowing objects about like the summer cyclones. He flew into the air, and Gaerion came shortly behind him. Both beasts roared, the slaves below scurrying out of the way in fear and protection. In only a few minutes, the city of Dorys Volar shrunk to appear like a model or child's toy. Hopefully, the last he would have to see such a sight.

* * *

The journey began quiet, as Gaerion's few attempts at conversation were rebutted by Aegys, and so he remained to himself. This allowed Aegys his thoughts, and often, his anxiety for what was to come. He had reached a truce with the water mages, demanding their fealty and service to Valyria. Their principle city Chroyne laid in ruins and the surviving cities- Ar Noy, Ny Sar, Lar Gen, among others- cowered in fear. Many of his peers called for these cities to be destroyed as well, but Aegys saw little use. Why destroy them when they will serve use?

When he was younger, perhaps, he would slam his shield in war cries for their destruction. But the harvests from Volantis were growing slim and the Rhoyne, despite its ugly land of grass and mud, still reaped food which could feed millions. The Rhoyne's shore bled fertile silt which bore fruits even alien to his own home. The Rhoyne was pacified now, and to Aegys, it was time to use it to its great advantage. Lesser they are, but the lesser are still useful.

In Ghis, they destroyed everything; from their harpy temples to its very land, salting and burning it till it became nothing but dust. Food was scarce, even in Valyria proper, and the Ghiscari repeatedly threw food revolts. Year prior, during their march on Chroyne, the slaves in Ghis had controlled cities from Meereen to Astapor. It was not till the Archon himself flew to the Slaver's Bay that the rebellion came to a screeching halt.

This had become a problem, an _expensive_ problem. Even the short, ugly Vhaelgen, the Imperial Goldmaster, knew it, and he lacked as much monetary sense as a courtesan has innocence.

A shout, "Lord." Aegys barely heard, deep in his thoughts.

The conquest of the Rhoyne would solve these issues. Every lord he knew was thirsty for ambition and recognition, the staple deed which would guarantee their election as Archon. Would this give him the position? _Myself? As Archon?_

Aegys had thought of this before, many times, though it did not feel as real as it did here. Securing the bounties of the Rhoynar for generations, sphinxes in each captured city from Chroyne to Ny Sar, a legacy for himself and for his children. His daughters could run amuck in the obsidian halls of the great palaces of the capital, and his wife? That shrilling woman would finally content herself…

Aegys stifled a laugh. He knew that would not last long.

"Lord! LORD AEGYS!" Another shout, this time snapping Aegys out of his thoughts.

"What, what, boy?" He scowled at Gaerion across from his, putting his dragon to remain stationary in the air. Gaerion followed suit.

"Five riders, lord, from further down the Rhoyne." Below them, the Rhoyne flowed, filled to the brim from the spring rains. And behind them clear in the sky, thunder roared.

Five dragons, all modest size, flying towards their direction _. Scouts?_ Aegys squinted, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. _They bear the standard of the Archon._ The Archon's personal sigil, the Great Volcano, flew upon each staff of the dragonriders, their own dragons donned in its black and white.

Aegys darted repeatedly between the five. _Yet no Archon._ He did not see the imperial standard nor the Archon's dragon, Beraxes. The Men of the Archon, or the _Aemovaes Mareyar,_ were sworn to the Palace of the Archon, and could not leave unless with the Archon themselves. And as much as Aegys knew, the Archon was in Astapor.

 _He was, right?_

"Lord?" Gaerion asked from Visengar, his hands clutched to the reigns.

"Lower yourself, we will meet them on the cliffs."

The two dragons swung below, landing and perching themselves onto the highest point of the left bank cliffs. Maekynar dwarfed Gaerion and his dragon nearly twofold, his scaly chest thrusted proudly forward. And on the tip of Aegys' spear, a banner bearing the Purple Flames of Aegoryos flittered in the wind.

"That is the Great Volcano!" Gaerion shouted happily, excited at such a prospect to see the Archon. Though he began to frown as he looked further, his hands covering himself from the blaring sun. "I do not see Beraxes, why are...? Lord?" In truth, Aegys knew not.

"No- keep quiet." He replied sharply, "Stay at attention, Gaerion, something is not right." His dragon gave a low grunt, as if to agree.

 _Why should he worry? He is the kin to the Archon, is he not?_

Aegys studied the approaching riders, his hand gripping the sword on his belt. Three of them red, one blue, another black. All five smaller than his own Maekynar, but larger than Gaerion's yellow worm. Aegys was an Imperial Viceroy, governor of five provinces, and a scion of prestigious stock. He would always be at least warned of the Archon's coming arrival. And these dragons, they were not of the guards Aegys knew. Monstrous Margoros with Baelorys, Lady Alysae with Haefyre, the twins Viserys and Visenya with their two-headed Maegor… these were lower worms, not the Elder Dragons fit to guard the Archon of Valyria.

Soon the five came down in a swoop, landing upon the cliffs adjacent to Gaerion and himself. Each of the five dragons, in response to Maekynar's exposed chest, so too acting the game of draconic supremacy.

" _Valar morghulis._ " Aegys called out, raising his right hand into the air.

"Aegys, I presume?" _Is he mocking you? Did he not know who he was?_

" _Lord_ Aegys." He responded in tort. He was an Aegoryos damn it, and he would be spoke to in proper form. "You bear the arms of the Archon, yet you are not one of His guards. That is a capital offense."

The four other dragonriders puffed their chests and glared at Aegys, seemingly searching for blood. Though the man did not respond, continuing "We have orders to bring you to Volantis, _Aegys_ , on orders of the Archon and the Council of the Freeholders." The rider, who was wearing a visor, raised it, exposing his purple eyes and sharp Valyrian features.

 _On orders of the Archon and the council...?_ For once in a long time, Aegys laughed aloud. He roared, leaning his head back and nearly falling from his dragon. "You think, with your shameful worms for steeds, that you command the authority of the Archon?"

"Think? Yes, Aegys, I do very much think I do." And with that, the rider had in a golden scroll, which unraveled in the wind. In Valyrian custom, mandates of the Archon were written in huge scrolls, scribed in the High Tongue. Many times, it required more than one scroll to fit the signature of the Archon, depending upon who ruled.

As it unraveled and exposed itself to the world, Aegys recognized the fifty-line signature of the Archon, the seal of the Great Volcano below inscribed in gold and silver. _What? No… what? This…_

 _He was the kin of the Archon!_

Aegys' face drooped, and even Gaerion aside him slumped his shoulders. The rider continued, "Lord Daemonos Targaryos, Imperial Viceroy and other titles." The one known as Daemonos wagged his hand about as he spoke, as if casually, "Unless you require proof of such too, Aegys?"

Aegys did not- could not- respond, his mind racing. It made no sense, he had just reached peace! On the Archons orders!

 _This is some ploy, a trick._ "This… a mista-" Aegys was cut off.

The dragon closest to him, a blue worm with a female rider, lashed out in a bite and slash with rapid speed. It had taken Aegys off-guard and made Maekynar lurch back in surprise, claws digging into her back right leg. Maekynar swung her tail, batting back the smaller rider and her dragon with great force.

The three others, excluding Daemon, went in for the attack as well. Tugging back with his reigns, Aegys met them, shouting " _DRACARYS!"_ as green flames enveloped the advancing trio. Gaerion to his side has begun to take off, and soon Aegys joined him. Maekynar's huge, green wings stretched out, hovering away from the approaching attacks with surprising speed. _Maekynar may be old, but he has not lost his speed._

Both Gaerion and Aegys receded into the skies, though the dragons remained in close pursuit. He shouted at Gaerion to follow him, but the dragons below quickly interrupted. The blue dragon had grabbed upon Visengar, and Gaerion pulled his reigns upon to counter the larger dragon's attack. The two red and black dragons continued their assault upon Aegys, as his dragon began to dance in response to their strikes.

Claw with claw and bite with bite, the three worms barraged Maekynar and her rider relentlessly, yet Maekynar bore superior sizes to these three wyverns. He had successfully knocked one dragon back to the ground with a claw and a pierce of his spear. He soon threw it aside for his sword, made of Valyrian steel, and it gleamed in the Rhoynish sun. Another came close to swiping Aegys off his very dragon, maintained only by the stirrups of his saddle.

As the battle raged, Aegys' thoughts fluttered away to mere instinct, his dragon and himself acting as one. With each dodge he met them with his own attack, and each burst of fire he met with his own. The sky soon became thick in smoke from dragonfire, his voice becoming horse from yelling out the Valaryian words. He swung his sword viciously upon each attack, the Valyrian steel glowing in the flames surrounding them.

It was the snap of one of the red dragon's neck which awoke Aegys from his instinctual mindset, the fat rider falling below. The rider crashed upon the rocks, his body a bloody mess. The dragon was thrown aside, Maekynar's teeth red with blood.

"DRAC-…" That voice… it was Gaerion.

Aegys whipped around, watching the boy's dragon be tugged down and thrown aside, Visengar being flung into the cliff side below. Aegys' eyes widened, shouting out below to the crumbling pair.

" _GAERION!"_ He cried out as the blue dragon collided into the larger Maekynar, slashing away with its claws upon the green behemoth's chest. It did not take long for Maekynar to make an attack of her own, digging his sharp digits deep into the combatant worm's neck. Soon, it fell like a rag doll below, its rider screaming out before falling below.

Yet two dragons came from either side and Aegys pulled back retreating higher and farther down the river. While Maekynar was no slow being, it would not be able to maintain a leading role in this chase for long.

He whipped the dragon apart to face the approaching dragons head-on, still gaining height as he flew higher. The Targaryen cur had also now taken flight, joining the fellow dragons. Around him, clouds began to haze his vision as he ascended even further up.

Aegys flew above the low-bearing clouds, below looking like a field of new snow. He caught his breath, awaiting to swoop in a crushing attack. His hands were sweaty, though he gripped his sword even tighter. _Who in Gods were these curs? Assassins?_

 _Whoever they were, they are lessers. And lessers have no place in fighting him._

Beads of sweat came down Aegys' brow, and his dragon whined. He looked down, her left-side cut and bloodied. _Damnations…_ He felt his own left side, and despite it not being ever touched, it was enflamed in intense pain. He gritted his teeth and held guard.

The attack he expected never came, and he waited there for what seemed like hours, days, then years, scanning the white field around him like a hawk searching for prey. Yet he found nothing. He cursed, the fools not having followed him up as he thought. _Who were these buffoons?_

A betrayal? From who? The politics of the Freehold could be dangerous, yes, but Aegys was no active politician. He was a general, a warrior, and he had not set foot into the volcanic halls of the capital for decades. Not since he married his wife, Palaerya, all those years ago. How sweet she was then, cooing at his every touch, and remembered even writing poetry for the hag. Then he moved her to Volantis and she cried and wailed and cursed him repeatedly.

 _By the Gods, will you truly make your final thoughts about her?_

 _You fool, you are not dead._

Aegys was not dead yet, and he would not die here. He closed his eyes. He needed to think. Then he heard the beat of wings, louder than the others he faced. _It was not Maekynar._

No, no, it was not the other three below. The beats of the wings took longer, sounding more like bangs than wisps of wings. _An Elder Dragon?_ Perhaps one of the Archon's guards? This news relieved him.

Suddenly, a black figure erupted from the white clouds below, the black wings of Haefyre stretching before the green Maekynar, blotching the sun. He had recoiled back, his dragon with him, and he maintained distance. The huge dragon, even greater than his own, loomed before him, and Aegys recognized the sight: The Lady Alysae the Hellfire upon her black goliath.

Her dragon, Haefyre, was as black as the Summer Islanders, its red eyes the only break in the pattern of dark. Like the other three dragons which pursued Aegys, it too had the arms of the Archon upon its chest, displayed proudly to the world. Aegys was almost taken aback in awe of the sight.

He tried to call out, but it was for naught. The huge worm surged forward in attack, and the injured Maekynar failed to dodge. The dragon's long, dark claws cut through Maekynar's chest like butter. Aegys felt like his chest was cut open.

The three dragons from below soon joined, biting and grabbing ahold of Maekynar and tearing her apart. The green dragon screamed and shrieked in pain, with Aegys unable to counter in any means. He felt himself be torn apart, as the dragon-mounted Daemonos swooped his sword upon Aegys. He blocked with his own, though it came to flying from his hand come the next pass.

From the claws of the four dragons, his saddle had come unbound from Maekynar's mass and Aegys could not hold on, falling from the clouds. He tumbled down above the wide gap of the river. The last thing he saw was Maekynar's head being torn from its neck by the demon Haefyre, as his bones shattered upon the hitting the waters of the River Rhoyne.

[Something I am doing for fun, please be as critical as possible. I wanna better my writing. All chapters subject to change.]


	2. List of Characters

**CHARACTER LIST**

 **\- DORNE -**

 **HOUSE MARTELL**

House Martell is one of the many independent fiefdoms on the eastern coast of Dorne, only notable in their strategic position upon the Greenblood River. They are nominally vassals of the High Kings of Dorne, currently the Yronwoods. Its founder was the Andal adventurer Morgan Martell, who slew the petty kings Gunthor Wade and Franklin Shell then conquered their lands for his own. Their sigil is a gold spear on white.

LORD WALTYR MARTELL, Lord of the Sandship, a veteran of fifty years;

-his wife, LADY PENELOPE, of House Santagar, bedridden with the pox;

- _their children,_

-SERRA, a Septa, noted for her silver mask to hide Greyscale, twenty-two;

-MORS, called LORD POPPY, nineteen years old, his heir;

-his drinking companions, TRYSTON, LOMAS DALT, WILLEM, and JOREN;

-EDWYLE, a knight of eighteen;

-BERTHA, a pretty girl of thirteen;

- _his siblings,_

-[ARNOLD MARTELL], killed by corsairs off the coast;

-MYRIAH MARTELL, nine and thirty, m. Ser Loryn Lake

-EDMYN LAKE, their only child, squire to Lord Mors;

- _his household:_

-SER BORYS LAKE, master-at-arms;

-SER KARYL, QARLTON, PITTY, guardsmen;

-MARQ THE TOOTHLESS, court healer;

-SEPTON MARCEL, SEPTON TYRON, SEPTA LIA, priests;

-SER ANDERS TRIPLEBARR, SER GRENDYL LAKE, sworn-shields;

-HALLOBHO, a eunuch from the Summer Islands;

- _his bannermen,_

-SER ARTYS LAKE, of Smallswood;

-SER DARYN WELLS of Greystroke;

-SER MARIC SALTGIVER, of Saltston.

 **THE BLOODROYALS – HOUSE YRONWOOD**

The oldest and one of the most powerful houses in Dorne, House Yronwood dominates the Boneway and is the principle claimant to the High Kingship of Dorne. They title themselves the 'Bloodroyal', ancient title tracing back, according to the family, to the King of the First Men. Their seat, Yronwood, controls the entrance to the Boneway, and they grow rich off the silver mined under their castle. Their sigil is a black portcullis grill over sand. Their words are _We Guard the Way._

KING EDGAR YRONWOOD, the Second of His Name, the Bloodroyal, King of Redmarch, Lord of the Stoneway, Protector of the Passes;

-his former wife [QUEEN ARIANNA], of House Wyl, died in childbirth;

- _their children,_

-PRINCE HENDRIK, heir to the Boneway, current Lord of Ghaston Grey and heir to the Bloodroyal;

-his wife, LARRA DRINKWATER

-their only child, PRINCE GARETH, a boy of ten and six;

-PRINCE YORICK, called LEPERHAND, afflicted with Greyscale covering his left arm;

-PRINCESS WYLLA, a girl of eighteen, m. Ser Allar Redspring

-their daughters, ANYA and MARYA REDSPRING;

-PRINCE SAMWELL, currently en route to the Wall;

-his council and household;

-LORD LOWYL WYL, his castellan;

-SER YOREN SPIRES, called ONE-EYE SPIRE, his marshal-at-arms;

-SER DERICK SIXHILL, his lawmaster;

-SAELYS MAELYON, a half-Valyrian, half-Ghiscari, his coinmaster;

-EDMUND TREGOR, his shadowmaster;

-MAESTER PETYR, a fat man from Oldtown, his maester;

-LORD ELTON ULLER, ambassador and heir of the Mad King Uller;

-his knights, bannermen, and soldiers,

-LORD MORTEN WYL, of Wyl;

-LORD HURTON, of Orange Grove;

-LADY SARRA HOLT, of Holt;

-LORD ORMOND SALTBORN, of Salt Shore;

-LORD MORGAN MONTAMAR, called MORG THE MONSTROUS;

-his son, MORGAN, called MORG THE MEEK;

-LORD DAMYN VAITH, of Vaith;

-LORD QUENTYN QOYGYLE, of Sandstone, called the BLACK SCORPION;

-LORD TRYSTIFER ALLYRION, of Godsgrace;

-SER LESTYR DRINKWATER, of Fullwells;

-SER SAUL KESTFIST and SER PAUL KESTFIST, twins;

-SER PETYR SCOURGE, of Scourge;

-SER RION HULL, SER ULTON OF BROWNHILL, SER MARK OF RAINWOOD, knights in his service;

 **HOUSE DRYLAND**

The Drylands were an Andal clan which migrated deep into the deserts of western Dorne following their expulsion from the Greenblood by the Vaiths. From their exile, they declared themselves the Kings of the Brimstone and founded Hellgate Hall and Hellholt, with the fellow outcasts the Ullers. And despite the rebellion of the Ullers nearly twenty years ago, they maintain firm control of the river and continue to resist incursions by the Bloodroyals.

Their sigil is a blistered hand on checkered red and yellow.

KING LOTHOR DRYLAND, called the LAME, King of the Brimstone, and Lord of Hellgate Hall, castrated by the Mad King Uller;

-his wife, QUEEN EMSA, of House Fowler;

-his children,

-his first son, [PRINCE LOGAN], died of the heat;

-his second son, [PRINCE LOREN], drowned in the Brimstone;

-his third son, [PRINCE LORIMAR], strangled by the umbilical cord;

-his fourth and only living son, PRINCE LUCIFER, a sickly boy of ten;

-his household,

-YAEROL, a Valyrian exile, his castellan;

-SER DAMON OF REDGATE, his master-at-arms;

-MAESTER GURON, his maester;

-SER TORGON BLACKSAND, his headsman;

-the story-tellers,

-ONE EAR GREG, SAMMY SMALL, and PENNY PETE;

 **OTHER KINGS AND LORDS OF DORNE**

KING GARRISON FOWLER, King of Stone and Sky, Lord of the Wide Way, Lord of Skyreach, called the BLIND KING, secluded in Skyreach;

-his son and heir, PRINCE TREMOND, current serving regent in his father's stead;

-his sister, QUEEN ESME, consort to the King of the Brimstone;

-SER HARLAND BROOK, his champion, Lord of Stranger's Watch;

KING ULRICK DAYNE, called the SWORD OF THE MORNING, King of the Torentine, Lord of Starfall;

-his children,

-[PRINCE SAMWELL], once called the SWORD OF THE MORNING, killed by bandits near Prince's Pass;

-[PRINCE ULRICK], called the YOUNG STAR, beheaded by the Mad King Uller;

-PRINCESS ULRIKA, sixteen years old, recently widowed;

-her late husband [SER YOREN REDKNIGHT], of Reachmont, also beheaded by the Mad King Uller;

-PRINCE VORIAN, called the SWORD OF THE EVENING, denied the ancestral sword and residing in High Hermitage, a man of nearly thirty years;

-[PRINCESS CAROLYN], died of the pox;

-PRINCE DAVOS, ten and four, serving as a page;

-his champion, MAGOR THE MIGHTY, a half-Ghiscari, half-Andal mutt nearly seven feet tall;

KING ELLARD ULLER, called the MAD KING ULLER, King of Hellholt, tributary to the Bloodroyal;

-his cousin and heir, LORD ELTON ULLER, currently serving the court of the Bloodroyal;

KING BENEDICT BLACKMONT, Lord of Blackmont, tributary to the Bloodroyal;

KING STEVON OLIVYNE, of the Lemonwood, called the SOUR;

KING ALTOR MANWOODY, King of Kingsgrave, called the HEADSMAN;

-his uncles, DAGOS DARKHARD and ALBIN THE TERROR;

KING DEVYN OF THE SANDS, KING EDD HART, KING PERSTON BRIAR, KING EDARK BOIL, petty kings of the Greenblood;

LORD MARTYN SANTAGAR, of Spotswood;

-his sons, DRAGAS and SAMWYLE;

LORD DESMOND JORDAYNE, of the Tor, tributary to the Bloodroyal;

 **\- ESSOS -**

 **FREEHOLD OF VALYRIA**

By Blood and Fire, the Valyrians have conquered an empire stretching from the Shattered Sea to the white beaches of Qarth. With dragons and the magical Fourteen Flames, they maintain a firm grip upon the known world and many consider them divine or even gods. Their government is controlled by a cabal of dragonrider families, which elect their leader, the Archon, by vote between themselves.

ARCHON VAERGOR VUGAROS, Archon of Valyria, Keeper of the Fourteen Flames, Lord Freehold of Vugaros, rider of _Beraxes;_

-his family,

-LADY DAENELYS, LADY ELAENYS, LADY RAENYS, his three daughters;

-his wife, TAELA SAERYON, rider of _Lanyx;_

-his cousin, [LAENOR VUGAROS], rider of _Saelihar_ , recently passed of an illness;

-his court and household,

-[LORD AEGYS AEGORYON], rider of _Maekynar,_ former Imperial Viceroy,killed by believed Rhoynar assassins during a diplomatic mission;

-his ward, LORD GAERION VELARYON, rider of _Visengar_ , lost on the River Rhoyne;

-LORD HAEGON YAEGION, rider of _Oryn,_ Imperial Viceroy;

-LORD LANYX TALERR, rider of _Palys,_ Imperial Viceroy;

-LADY AELYXA EYSAEN, rider of _Urrax,_ Imperial Chief General;

-VHAELGEN THE WORM, Imperial Goldmaster;

-LORD LORVAROS EYSAEN, Imperial Spymaster;

-GRAZAY, his Ghiscari slave;

-LORD JAEKAR HONORYON, rider of _Belichys,_ Imperial Auditor;

-SILLY SALAR, formerly the Rhoynar Prince of Nar Gon, castrated and made into the court fool;

-his _Aemovaes Mareyar,_

-LORD MARGOROS HONORYON, called the MONSTROUS, rider of _Baelorys;_

-LADY ALYSAE JAENKAR, called the HELLFIRE, rider of _Haefyre_ ;

-VISERYS and VISENYA QHAEDAR, twins who ride the two-headed _Maegor;_

-DAELON VUGAROS, distant cousin of the Archion, rider of _Vaegon;_

-PAELRYS PAELRYON, called the BLUE, rider of _Daepynos;_

-the commander, EKLAENOS THE WHITE, natural son of late Lord Yaegion, rider of _Syranos;_

Some of the principle families of the Freehold include Aegoryon, Honoryon, Vugaros, Delyros, Paelryon, Qhaedar, Visenyos, and Talerr.

 **THE RHOYNAR**

The Mother Rhoyne supplies for all her children and the Rhoynar are the principle of her offspring. When the Valyrians invaded their lands after betraying their very trust, the Rhoynar united under Prince Garin the Great, whose army of 250,000 warriors held the Valyrian Empire at bay for years, but broke following the arrival of the Three Hundred Riders. With the greatest of the Rhoynar cities sacked and destroyed, many now flee down their mother to the safety of the west.

PRINCESS NYMERIA, Princess of Ny Sar, Last of the Princes, Lady of the Ten Thousand Ships, a girl of sixteen;

-her father, [PRINCE DYGOS], called the OLD TURTLE, killed at the Third Battle of Sehorys;

-her mother, [PRINCESS MERIA], of the City of Chroyane, killed at the Sack of Chroyne;

-her eldest uncle, PRINCE GARIN, called GARIN THE GREAT or GARIN THE FALLEN, Prince of Chroyne, captured by Valyrians at the Battle of Volantis;

-her youngest uncle, [LUDYMOS], killed at the Battle of Volon Therys;

-her aunt, LYMALIA, one of the Ladies of the Ten Thousand Ships;

-her sister, PRINCESS LAMENKIA, heir to Nymeria, a short, chubby girl of ten;

-on her ship the _Rhoynos,_

-GARISS, a shapely youth of eight and ten, her paramour and one of her commanders;

-ADMOS OF SARHOY, her champion;

-the last of the priestesses,

-TYRENELLA, of the White Rhoyne, a woman of nearly ninety years;

-OBARA, of the Blue Rhoyne, rumored to be over one hundred, unresponsive and in the care of her fellow priestesses;

-LYWENA, of the Blue Rhoyne, seven and fifty;

-RUTEKA, of the Red Rhoyne, a short girl of fifteen;

-her servants and milk-sisters, ANNELLA and NENATTA;

-on the fleet of the Ten Thousand,

-OBERYN, former commander of Gar Len, captain of the _Losson;_

-POLONOS, captain of the _Rhutek;_

-ISYLIA, captain of the _Erglenos;_

-her daughter, ELIA;

[I will be updating/changing this list of characters as the time goes on, so this is not final. Any errors, mistakes, or feedback, please give them, as I do wish to better my writing skills. Also, the original format for this screwed up when it was transferred to this website, so I'll try to make it better for the eye later.]


	3. The Lord and His Poppies

**MORS**

"Aye. I tell you, my father was _there_. Saw the whole city burnt to a crisp. Swear on me mom's grave." said Tryston, putting his hand on his heart. He puffed out a cloud of smoke, passing the pipe to the slim boy next to him.

"By the Warrior's cock if that _fat lout_ saw it, he couldn't even stomach a virgin's bloody sheets." Joren scoffed, the biggest of the gathering, with dirty brown hair. His skin was pink from harsh sunburn.

The piped passed to Lomas, with an eyebrow as thick as a spear, who commented, "When I was in Myr, they had these-…" He exhaled the smoke in Mors' face. He fanned it aside. _Lomas, you whoreson._ "-… dragons, I say, huge ones too. They flew in the sky and did these tricks. Some marriage or whatnot, lord was celebrating that he was shaggin' his sisters. _Both_ of them."

Mors got the pipe next and Tryston tossed the die on the table, but they came up as one and two and he got wroth. "Imagine that, fuckin' your sister," Mors said as he inhaled, and the hot smoke filled his lungs. He leaned back in his crusty, wooden seat, closing his eyes. He hated this tavern, the Green Snake, because its seats hurt his back.

"Hopefully not _your_ sister, Lord Poppy, not much for a sandy beach." said Lomas, who put two coins in the center, _Lord Poppy._ Mors hated the nickname. "Now you still playin', eh?"

 _Say something witty, Lord Poppy._ Yet he merely threw the two coins in without a word, and Tryston began, "Now, the younger sister I would plough, not Sundry Serra." His older sister, Serra, had Greyscale nearly six years ago, and scarred most of her face. At this point, Mors could not remember if she had been attractive before she had it. Bertha was his younger sister, and she, in to the contrived jealousy of Serra, was considered a land beauty by the bards who came to the feasts.

"She is what? Only ten?" spat Joren, sucking on the pipe. _Thirteen you idiot, and not even bled._ If what his mother says is true, at least. "Besides, she'll be too soft. Want a real woman, not a fish." He shakes his head and Tryston snorts.

"And you get _real_ women, eh?" said Tryston. Mors leaned back into his chair once more and closed his eyes. _Why do you not talk?_

 _Why does it matter?_

Mors could only sigh. He thought of his sister Serra first and it made him sad. Why her of all people? She was still as prude as an attractive girl, though. If one trait was made clear about her, it was her hot temper, especially on Mors. Recently, she had come down upon him about his poppy use. _It is an issue Mors, you know this._

The thought of poppy made him scratch his arm. _You idiot,_ Mors cursed, _they are right there!_ He gripped the chair's armrests instead. She was right, and he knew it.

About three years ago, during Mors' sixteenth nameday, his father held a tourney in celebration and invited nearly all the lords in eastern Dorne, with the expectation of Mors winning against the children of the red-faced well lords. Mors, if he was to give himself credit, was not horrid at jousting. He could ride, and if you asked Ser Borys, perhaps even well, and during the practices he hit his targets against fat Pitty and Borys' lackwit brother Grendyl. By the Mother's tits, he even unhorsed his father.

 _Yet you failed, Mors._ On the first tilt, he faced against the pudgy Tywon Arath, who could barely hold a lance. And when they rode against each other, Tywon's lance knicked him on the shoulder and Mors tumbled off his horse. He landed upon his arm and was drug by the stirrup till his horse stopped. Tywon was declared the winner and his father retreated to his quarters in shame.

The court healer Marq, for his family did not have the money to afford a real Maester of the Citadel, declared that Mors had shattered his shoulder upon being carried into the Sandship, their hideous atrocity of a castle. And as what every diligent physician does, he prescribed Mors milk of the poppy to ease the pain. It was a feeling Mors never felt before, and even now he could still imagine his first experience of drinking the stuff.

His already burgeoning use of _nomos_ and sour wine probably did not help him prevent liking the drink. Even now, he cursed at his _nomos_ use. _Bloody Stranger, you know smoking this makes you think this way._

When Marq refused Mors more milk after he caught on Mors' attempts at feigning greater injury, he began to steal the stuff from his personal quarters. It was his sister Serra who first found out, when Mors was lounging in the sun unresponsive to her calls.

"Mors! _Mors!_ You potbelly fool, wake up!" She shook him with no reaction from Mors. He did not know what happened after, as his sister never told him, but he appeared in his room. Although his sister scolded him heavily, she never did tell his father. "Mors, father will send you to the _Wall._ " chastised Serra, when he had finally awoken to her on his bedside.

"So?" Mors slurred, "I-" She slapped him. _You idiot,_ thought Mors retrospectively, _you should never say that._ She yelled at him a storm and Mors, instead of fighting, relented and agreed with mumbles. "Serra-... it will not happen again, I swear it."

"It better not." She huffed, before laying a kiss on his forehead, "You are my brother, and you are the _heir._ Seven and ten on the next moon, Mors, you are no longer a little lordling."

 _You never asked to be born first._ "I did not _choose_ to be heir, sister." Her face turned sour, but her scaled left side remained motionless.

"Neither did I choose to look like a crusty hag at twenty, brother," responded Serra in tort, "Think I have an enjoyable time, eh?" She always did this, brought up her greyscale and it always made Mors lost for words.

When she departed, she made Mors swear to better himself and 'look to the Father for help'. And in all honesty, Mors did try to get better, he really did. But when the shakes and sweats began the fourth day in, and he felt as if his stomach would wretch itself out of his throat, he went back to his old habits. Mors snuck into Marq's solar once again and drunk the poppies, resting back into euphoric sleep.

His dreams, though, became wild as his poppy use increased. At first, it was pleasant memories and long-forgotten ambitions, such as impressing his father or vivid coalitions of colors, shapes, and exotic fantasies. Others complained about the terror of the dreams, but to Mors it was an experience which he craved for. Under the scolding disappointment of his father, and how his mother doted upon his younger brother Edwyle and seemingly ignored him, he began to like the dreams more than his real life.

It scared him when the dreams became wicked and Mors attempted to toss the habit finally. They began to twist into nightmares and fever dreams, men with no faces dancing in blood, or his teeth dried and rotten from an orange sun. It terrified him, and he still remembers screaming awake and the guards hurrying to his room like obedient servants.

That was when his father finally confronted him, and like what Serra said, he threatened him furiously, "You pitiful shit!" his father Waltyr screamed, throwing Mors down upon the dried ground of the courtyard, "I should send your worthless ass _to the Wall_! Are you listening to me?" Mors never did respond, and like the weak-willed urchin he was, cowered back.

 _No wonder none respect you, for you cannot even stand tall to your father._

His father sacked him on the head, "You will not destroy _everything_ I have a worked for. You will ruin our house! Everything!" His lord father continued, lecturing him on his family line, all the sweat he poured to achieving what he did, the work which he put in everyday as lord- it was the endless spiel, which Mors had heard time and time again. _You hypocrite, the only achievement you've had was bending your knee like a whore to every lord with a bigger army._

He knew about the missing poppy and hoped it was some greedy servant. But his own son? How great the dishonor to him and his wife, how it spat upon his very ancestors. Mors was worse than the Stranger Himself, and he would bring chaos and destruction. His shame for failing in being a knight was enough, but a poppy-eater was a new low. Ser Anders, one of his father's guards, whipped Mors and gave him welts and cuts all down his back. It was punishment for dishonoring the family.

Yet his father did not send him to the Wall that day, nor the two other times it occurred- once he was found upon the throne room convulsing, the other in the gardens by a servant who could not rouse Mors up. Every time either Anders or Grendyl whipped him to a pulp on his father's orders. Every time his mother refused to see him and continued knitting. Every time he abided by his parent's demands and swore off the poppy.

He could not drop the habit though, and in usually a week's time he was draining the milk like sour wine once again.

"Your roll, Mors." Tryston called and as instinct Mors rolled and retreated into his thoughts. Tryston yelped in surprise, must have been a good roll. Mors did not look. The people around him, his friends, chatted and laughed and jibbed at each other like any other their age. But why not him? _Because you'd rather the milk than anything else, isn't that right?_

He scratched his arm again, feeling the all too familiar sweats. By the Gods, he needed a drink. He tried to flag one of the tavern wenches, a fat woman nearly sixty, to order yet she did not see him. Or did she ignore him? Mors could not tell, nor did he care. _Sour wine is not the drink you need, Mors._

Mors stood up and left as quickly as he could, trying as hard as he could not to make it obvious of his flight. The men at the table were taken by short surprised then continued their talk. _They know where you are going, Mors, this is not the first time, now is it?_ This is the last time, Mors assured him, though he knew deep down that it would not be.

Snaking and weaving through the crowded _Green Viper_ was no easy task, pushing through the drunk sailors and wanton whores. The tavern reeked of sweat and alcohol, its floors was dirt covered by cheap carpets and spreads. He passed by the tavernkeep, a one-eye man with three missing teeth, who gave his typical 'yullo', but did not look up from his dish cleaning.

Once Mors made it outside, the hot Dornish sun hit him hard. Sun-caked huts and shops surrounded him, its sandstone colored almost like vomit. The street was quiet with only a few vendors out, many of them silk and metal merchants from beyond the sea. He hurried along the streets, shifting through alleys and intersections quickly and with ease. Mors stayed off the main roads, for they carried the only guards, and he did not want them reporting his whereabouts to his father.

This place, Planky Town, was not much a town in honesty, but rather a hamlet of sun-dried merchants and exiles from up north. Everything was made of sandstone and mud, with only the buildings closest to his family's keep having the pleasure to be made from wood. The streets were unorganized, confusing, and turned in every possible direction. It was easy for a newcomer to be lost, even when trying their hardest to stay on the main roads, and Planky Town was well known for its disappearing individuals time and time again.

Mors was lucky though, for even the most desperate urchins would not dare touch him. They knew he was a lord, even if a he was a _Lord Poppy_ , and they were surprisingly smart in pursuing lesser game. That is not to say Mors never had close encounters, but at ten and nine and over six feet, most preferred to stay away. The sheathed sword on his hip also helped. _Probably the only reason you are not dead yet Mors, do you honestly believe you impose these hermits?_

The Sandship came into view, his family's ancestral seat, founded by bloody Morgan Martell himself. To his father and, he supposed, to him too, the Sandship was the testament of House Martell's persistence and greatness. _This is not the High Tower or Storm's End, father._ What his father did not realize though, was the Sandship looked more like a tumorous growth than a real castle. It was spotted by the years of weather abuse and was shaped like a sideways pear, sharing the same color as every other mud home in city.

The way up to the Sandship was to the only true imposing feature of the castle, as the stairs snaked back and forth, making the Sandship look like a grand fortress overlooking the metropolis below. The walls surrounding the castle were nearly crumbling yet still held, made of sand-colored brick and waving the golden spear of Martell on every tower. Mors put up his hood and began the climb up.

The stairs were not terribly long, but the hot sun always made the climb unbearable. Sweat beat down his brow, and Mors could not tell if it was because of his craving or this dreaded heat. A mixture of both, he presumed.

His family, to pay their tribute to the Bloodroyal, rented out the courtyard to the more affluent merchants, who used it as a venue to sell their better goods away from the pisspoor customers of Planky Town. Most of them were Andal stock, traders from the Cape Wraith, Oldtown, and others who made their rounds from the bountiful eastern part of the world to the rural western half. So, when Mors finally reached the top, he stood before another marketplace of lords and burghers, who sold exotic goods like _nomos,_ silks, and eastern gold.

Staying hidden through Planky Town was easy, but in the courtyard of his very family's keep? Mors stayed in the center, walking through the tented stalls with his head shielded. The fat merchants payed no heed, for Mors' leather tunic and simple trousers made him look more like a servant than anyone with money. And even if they did know him, they cared not. They all heard the stories of Lord Waltyr and his son Lord Poppy and bringing up familial issues was bad for their business.

He first passed by a carpet merchant with a jagged nose and a huge belly, then a slaver from Essos with great blue hair. Mors did not pass him quickly enough, for he bellowed out, "Oi sirrah! Come here, come here, you look like a man who could need a new wife, eh?" He held out his hands towards the chained girl next to him, naked and as brown as the mud.

"No." He shouted back, not stopping. _You idiot, why did you speak?_ The slaver continues to call out but adverted his attention to the next man who passed. _Merely paranoia, Mors, see? No one heard you._ Mors signed and thanked the gods.

"Ah, Lord Mors! I thought that was you!" That was Ser Borys. _Damnations Mors, why did you speak?_ At least it was not Grendyl.

"Come on, come on now, Lord Mors, you cannot stride away forever." He continued to say, and Mors stopped, turning about. Borys stood a tad shorter than him, his head shaved clean with a decent gut. "Ahah, there we are. How is the Young Spear?" said Borys, giving a toothy grin with yellow teeth.

Mors put on his best smile, "Ser Borys! Good its you, I thought at first your _brother_ got me." He laughed and Borys followed it. Damned _nomos_ , he could not tell if that was even funny.

"Sadly no, Lord Mors, you do not have the honor of facing my dear brother, merely lowly me." said Borys mockingly, "Have you been lickin' honey again, Lord Mors? Your eyes are as red as Grendyl's pimples."

 _There we are._ If there was one skill Mors felt he had mastered, it was the art of speaking nonsense, or as they said in Qarth, _shit of the bull_. "Y-yes, Ser Borys, sorry, I was- with friends, we were playing a few dice games."

"Dice games and pipes?" Borys wagged his finger, "You know the Seven prohibit such vices, yes yes?"

"Merely with friends, ser, celebrating the rule of lord father." said Mors. Borys laughed aloud. _The easiest of the game is done._

"And where are you off to now, eh?"

 _Markets, quarters, family, healer, septon… Septon._ "The septon, ser, h-he wanted me to help him studies of the waves today, says he has found a relationship between the crabs and.. the tide." Mors tried to sound as straight as he could.

"Oh? He is _still_ on about that nonsense?" Borys spat to the side, huffing, "Bloody idiot will drown himself someday."

"Aye, well, he thinks now the crabs can manipulate the tides, as they leave and enter the waves it changes the ocean's level of water." _Did that sound convincing?_ Mors prayed it did.

Borys hummed, "Hrm… I mean, it _could…_ what a weird man, that septon."

"Normal men do not become priests, ser."

"Aye, normal men fuck and shit, don't they? Imagine that, a life without fuckin'." Borys chuckled to himself, "Well tell the septon g'den for me, if you could. I should be comin' for confessional soon."

"Oh? Sinful now, Ser Borys?"

"Merely cautious, Lord Mors, cautious 'tis all." Borys' jovial expression dimmed, and he huffed, "Lord, if you require _anything_ , please do ask. You know your mother is worried up to the seven hells about you."

Mother, thinking of Mors? _Stop trying to flatter me, Borys._ "Mother does not think of me much I think, ser." He quickly added, "Anyhow, f-forgive me ser, if you would…"

"Ah, yes, g'day Lord Mors. Please, stay safe if you could." Borys gave a short bow, shuffling off. Mors continued through the stalls.

Mors decided against using the front gate for obvious reasons, and so resorted through the back in the gardens. _If you could call them gardens, by the Seven._ They were more like shrubs, as his family could not afford the water to actively have any sort of true, elaborate garden, and preferred a few trees and small roses. Quaint, though, and while not fancy it still was a break from the mud-stained walls of the keep.

Mors climbed the walls, since the lower walls were barely five feet in height, and he made his way through the greenery. He passed by the dead wierwood tree, a huge monstrosity, which decayed in gross tumors. As a child, though, he swore the tree grew _,_ its hideous growths expanding _,_ but mother insisted otherwise. He also passed the small pond, which was typically dry, but occasionally in the summer seasons the rains came and gave it some form of life. Sadly, there had not been rain in a while.

Mors hated the _hot_ summers, though he should not complain much. He has not had any experience with winter, if you count a short time as a babe. A hot summer is better than a cold winter then, eh? Still though, a break from the damned sun would be a pleasant change.

No one ever guarded the back door, and Mors slipped in casually and without a hitch. A few servants saw him, but they cared not, and went on their business. He made sure to dodge the main hall, of course, and stuck to the cramped stairwells of the north end. None of the servants ever cleaned since this part was never used, and Mors coughed in its dusty aroma.

Mors always went through the Old Sept, which was rarely used because of its rotting wood. In the small sept was a collection of old mosaics, conveniently on his way towards his destination, and he could spend the time to take a peak. If Borys was to be believed, the mosaics were made during Morgan's time himself, and he was most likely right. They featured Lord Morgan and his victory over the two petty kings, Wade and Shell, and the battlefield on which he slew both kings in single combat. Or so the story goes, at least.

They were also made from the remains of the two kings' keeps and artwork, so it had errors in made ways. First, Morgan looked more like a squid than an actual Westerosi. The background changed colors time to time, and it switch scenes very abruptly. But the collage always peaked Mors interest, and he liked to stare at it while on _nomos._

Finally, he made it to his floor, and looking both ways, slowly snuck to his quarters. He luckily lived close to the north side, despite his family living in newer south side, but it made escapades like this easy, if Mors could say so. His quarters were reasonably large, with a bed, table and chair, bookshelf, and a few other commodities. It did lack any balcony and only having a pitiful excuse of a window with old, stained glass. The room was also short, compared to the others on the south end, and it made the room feel smaller than it truly was.

The servants expected Mors to hide his more personal belongings in the typical locations- be it under the bed, buried in a closest, or hidden in some forgotten corner. But Mors considered himself smart, and was his father ever to look himself? Most likely not, therefore he only had to outsmart the servants, who were servants for a reason. A brick on the far end of the room, opposite of his bed, was loose, and it became the perfect spot for his collection.

He removed the brick carefully, as to not break it- as breaking it would make it seemingly more noticeable- and this task was quite hard. The Sandship was not a particularly old castle, but it could have been made of more sturdy material than _sandstone_. Though everything in this castle looked as if it would fall out, and so made this spot a particularly good evasion against prying eyes. When removed, the brick exposed a small slit of room, spacious enough to old small bottles and other knick-knacks, more specifically his pipes and _nomos._

He cursed as he picked up the first bottle, for which there were three in total, and realized it was empty. He was a lazy man, and always left the empty glassware in the hole. The second, too, was also empty. _Am I this empty? Bloody Hells._

Luckily for him, the third was not, about half-filled, and Mors moved to examine in the paltry light of the window. He made sure to hide the hole with the brick, as he always feared to forget when he drunk the milk, and the servants would sadly become wiser once they stumbled upon the hidey-hole. In the clear bottle, the milk was an opaque white, without any reflection or transparency. The sight nearly made Mors drool.

The itching then became more bothersome, and Mors stumbled to open the bottle. _Damn it you idiot, open it._ He tugged upon the cork till it came free with a 'pop!', and without a second thought Mors drained it.

 _There we are… sweet, yes, finally, by the Gods…_

He stumbled away from the window and hid the bottle underneath his straw began to overtake him, the sweet, sweet umbrella of sleep. The itching went away, the worry, the problems… He hoped for no dreams but why should he care? Enjoyment is what he wanted, not to think. _Wait…_

 _The door, you idiot, it is not even latched._

He pulled himself up as fast as he could. _Quickly now, before it…_ Struggling, he shambled at the feet, making his way to the door. With each step the poppy took hold of him, and it went from a casual step to gripping for dear life upon the walls. _You can make it, you can make it, you can make it, you can make it…_ He went as quickly as he could, the fires of determination flaring through him. He would make it, he was sure of it, by the Gods he would make it.

 _Nearly there, yes, nearly there, nearly there, three more steps, two, you…_

That was, until, Mors fell face first upon the stone floor and he drifted into the sweet embrace of the poppy dreams.

Men burned by the very sun, their bones melting to liquids of clarion white. The children next to them cried but made no noise.

Tanned women walked on the sands, ripping snakes and sucking its venom raw. They danced in crude motions and exposed themselves to the melting fathers and wailing children

The sky was dark, then light, then dark, then light, until the clouds blocked even the color and shades.

Water then enveloped all, the men drowning in thick silt, and great turtles carried the children ashore.

Mors felt his teeth fell from his mouth as the women began to stroke his body from all sides, his face falling off. He tried to scream but he could not.

[Please be as critical as possible, I want to better my writing skills in any way possible. Please point out any grammatical errors and/or spelling errors as well.

Illidanavd- Thank you for your comment. Yes, I plan on doing the entirety of Nymeria's conquests, from her time in Sothoryos to her finally uniting Dorne years later.]


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